


Meetings of Happenstance

by tfbl



Category: A Royal Affair (2012), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Wendigo!Lecters, vampire!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 9,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5804146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfbl/pseuds/tfbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The various encounters between vampire Sherlock and a Wendigo family over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Murasaki and Robertas 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing apart from the plot

 

_Meetings of Happenstance_

 

**Chapter One:  Murasaki and Robertas 1**

When Sherlock encounters them, this man and woman, he has to do a double take.

Two teenagers fighting a war is, sadly, not unusual, but a  blonde man and an Asian woman residing in a region made up almost entirely of dark skinned individuals is. They are also non human, although exactly what they are Sherlock is too far away to say, only being able to make out their natural scent as _other_.

They are shooting arrows and ducking spears and as Sherlock watches the male violently shoves the female to the ground, taking the arrow meant for his companion without a moment’s hesitation. Immeadtly the woman jerks her companion down beside her, her expression viscous and eyes blazing flame, and paying no mind to the corpses around them or the fact that organs and blood coat their feet, and even less to the fact that she and the knife in her hand are almost black with human matter, the female claims the other’s mouth in a brutal kiss that is more _bite_ then anything else.

More _possession_ then anything else.


	2. Chapter Two: Family

 

**Chapter Two: Family**

Hearing a sharp crack of a tree branch Sherlock turns his head, automatically searching for the source of the noise. Sherlock is surprised when, there in the darkness of the clearing he spots a species that he has only encountered twice before. A species that smells of withered mint and sour grapes mixed with cloying blood and rotting wood and boiling honey.

One whom consumes human flesh, not by choice necessarily, but by necessity.

_How can it be necessary, when they can pick and choose which parts to eat? Sounds like an excuse to kill, to me._

_(You can say the same about Weres or Mers or Humans, for do not they choose which parts to consume and which to disregard?)_

Creatures whom are able to see and create beauty from death and darkness and violence and the resulting gore.

_Horrible? Well, of **course** it is._

_(No. Not all of the time. Not if it’s done right. Just about every culture – human and non- has recognized and practiced this at some point or another. What is the difference, really?)_

A creature that views the human beings around them as nothing more than livestock.

_Lacking empathy, according to some._

_(You can say the same about the man that kills the sheep that bleats in terror or the mother who smothers the child born of an affair. How are they any better when empathy is in question?)_

One whom finds emotional pleasure in killing, in causing pain and terror in their prey.

_Sadistic, some might say._

_(There are at least sixteen species whom share this tendency, and a thousand more whom would have no problem resorting to it should it suit their needs. They have no room to talk.)_

A predatory species that posses not only extremely tuned hunting abilities, but empathic gifts that allow them to assume any point of view. Allow them to understand anyone and everyone – all the better to kill with.

_You would think it would be the opposite, wouldn’t you?_

_(Not when you are a predator, a hunter. Killing is surviving, after all, regardless of the method.)_

Wendigo.

A family of them, to be more precise. Five in number, three children and two adults. Their forms range from human to the antlered, skeletal thin and pure black humanoid form, and lastly the Ravenstag form.

An identical trio of young brown eyed boys are playing with one another, gliding silently over the leaves and branches that litter the ground, smiling as they circle and playfully bat at one another. As Sherlock watches one of the children, the one with his ribs showing and ebony skin gleaming in the moonlight, lowers his head so that the small rack of antlers that grace it – small, velvet lined and quiet useless, really - point at his two brothers. If he were older, this boy, the gesture could easily have been a threat, for he would be more then capable of killing with the antlers alone, pinning and impaling and suffocating his victim. As it is, however, the gesture is a playful one, and the other boys, both in their human forms, quietly shriek in mock fear and dart away, their sibling trailing after them.

The male, also in human form, watches the boys with warm eyes – loving eyes- as he stands quietly a few paces from them, his posture relaxed and unafraid despite the potential dangers all around them. After all, what is there to feat when you yourself are fear? The male carries a cloth sack with him, and Sherlock dose not require the scent of blood that escapes from it to know that the contents are that of a human corpse. What does surprise him is that the scent of irises mingle with the blood, for as far as Sherlock knows irises do not grow in these parts. It must have been terribly important to adorn the corpse prior to consumption. Important to express the beauty (the art) that they had elevated the human – the pig, to their way of thinking, an animal fit only for slaughter - to upon said human’s death. Payment for an insult perhaps, or something much more serious?              

The female – mate and mother, no doubt – is standing behind the male. Silent and still apart from a slight twitch of her ears, it is clear that she is listening for danger. For predators’ larger then herself. The Ravenstag form that she takes is magnificent, truly. Snow white hair covers her powerful muscles, while equally white raven feathers not only cover her neck but make up the massive wings that stretch from shoulders to flanks. Her antlers, hooves, nose and eyes are just as striking. Clear and smoky gray, they appear more as colored glass then flesh, blood, and bone. She is also pregnant, the clean, sweet scent of her condition obvious to Sherlock even though at such an early stage – a week, at most- it is surly not obvious to her.

Suddenly the female freezes, her nostrils flaring and her wings twitching. It is clear that she senses something is off, and were Sherlock downwind from her it would be him that she smells. As it is it is likely something else, but that something else has her scraping her antlers against her mate’s shoulder, the sharp points instantly drawing blood. The male winces slightly but otherwise doesn’t react to the pain – unsurprising, considering that violence and pain are an essential part of not only Wendigo relationships, but of the Wendigo nature itself – his eyes automatically moving away from his sons and scanning the landscape in front of him.

Although it is obvious that the male does not sense anything is amiss he remains watchful, quickly moving towards his frolicking sons and wordlessly herding them along, placing his body in between their forms and the entrance to the clearing. The children take it in stride so far as to not even pause in their play, clearly too used to it to notice. Sherlock watches as the female brings up the rear, her form still tense and watchful, and Sherlock sees it is a struggle for her not to close the five foot gap between herself and her family. Soon their forms are swallowed up by the darkness and the clearing is as it was once again, quiet and peaceful with only the faintest of sings to suggest that the occupants within are not entirely so.


	3. Murasaki and Robertas 2

 

**Murasaki and Robertas 2**

Sherlock has received many types of requests over the years, but this one was one he was not expecting. A letter written by a Wendigo pair urgently requesting his aid in locating members of their family. Considering how private that particular species is Sherlock knows that these family members were not simply _missing_. So Sherlock accepts the request and meets with the Wendgio’s in question, Murasaki and Robertas Lecter.

They usher him into their sitting room, this Count and Countess (this buck and doe), their natural rotting Wendigo scent made all the more pungent by the distress rolling off of their forms. It is the Lady Murasaki whom explains, her voice tight and muscles tight, her almond eyes fixed on him in a hunting stare. Explains how her brother through marriage and his mate were found dead, their four young children missing.

Taken by hunters.

Sherlock does not need any more prompting, for to leave any creature (to say nothing of any _child_ ) in the hands of hunters – murderers – would be an unimaginable cruelty

So he begins to search, scouring the surrounding woods with Robertas day after day and well into the night, Sherlock following the blonde, duel hued eyed man’s scent ( cherries, silver, and ginger) when the light is too dim for even Sherlock’s eyes.

Week after week Sherlock spends at Lecter Castle, catching only a few hours of sleep and even fewer meals as he pours over maps with Murasaki, her scent of rain, roses, and raspberries soaking into the paper, her sword calloused fingers tapping the table and her head twitching backwards in agitation.

Month after month Sherlock wanders the vast, ancient stone expanse of the estate, paying no mind to the pet wolves that lurk in the shadows and growl at him from their master’s side and paying _every_ mind to the lack of news that the Lecter’s scouts and servants bring.

Hour after hour Sherlock is forced to review the documentation as he revisits the atrocious crimes committed by humans such as these: wings removed and eyes scooped out and children cut from swollen bellies, the victims heart still beating: magical binds and bones ripped from the sockets and skin burned to a crisp: fur shredded from backs and paws removed and lungs filled with dirt and screams so loud that the throat literally tore and people on four legs getting _fucked_ by beasts on two and, and, and, _and_.. 

(Sherlock does not mention the small gray feathers that dot Murasaki’s neck nor the emerald hue of her nails.

He remains silent when the dread becomes too much for this predatory pair and antlers grow from human heads and the evidence of their claiming becomes more obvious, more violent. More _necessary_ , it would seem.

The fact that neither of his clients are not eating the way that they should be does not loosen Sherlock’s tongue, nor does the clang of swords or the manner in which Murasaki never allows her husband out of reach of her senses for more then a minute cause Sherlock to speak.

Nor does he speak a word when he notices the manner in which the Count looks at his Lady: as though his entire world is crumbling about him and _she_ is the only thing holding him together.

It would be impolite and unnecessary to breathe a word about any matter. _So_ impolite and so _very_ unnecessary).

They finally find them in a small dwelling one hundred miles north, through thick pines and over mountains and across waist deep snow.

 The Lecter heirs, three small boys by the names of Hannibal, Johan and Nigel. Three painfully thin seven year old boys huddled in a corner, their skin frostbitten and lips blue, their necks wrapped in iron chains, brown eyes wide and unseeing. 

Human footprints and Wendigo blood – lots of Wendigo blood- in the snow, but no humans to be found.

Bits of bone and pieces of golden fur and chocolate feathers. _Pieces_ of three year old Mischa Lecter, _pieces of a baby_ butchered like an animal. She would have been in her Ravenstag form when they killed her, (when they _skinned_ and _cut_ her), her little scream a _fawn’s_ scream when they slit her throat and snapped her brittle black bones.

The scream that issues from the throat of the Lord and Lady have nothing on it, Sherlock is sure.

What he is also sure of is that these monsters, whomever they are, will not survive the year. Sherlock is more then alright with that.


	4. Hannibal

 

**Hannibal**

 

 

The third time Sherlock spots one of the Lecters five hundred years have passed. It is the eldest, Hannibal, the one whom smells of blackberries, platinum, amber and spice, bound with rough leather and kneeling in a wooden cage, enslaved by man. He is littered with scars, one side of his face disfigured and the eye rendered useless. He also appears to be mute, something which Sherlock is sure is a recent development.

They take him out in order to fight other men, Hannibal using his teeth and fists or rocks and even the leather cord that binds his neck.

 (Vicious animals, the lot of them).

The buck appears completely unfazed by the blood and other internal matter that splatters his dirty, beaten form, even so far as to lick the blood from his lips – likely one of his few true food sources. If Sherlock would guess what causes Hannibal Lecter the most suffering it is not the physical pain of broken bones or starvation or even being unable to alter his form due the sprinkle of magic that coats his binds, but rather the emotional pain of being separated from his mate. Should he have one, that is. (A mate whose scent Hannibal Lecter would have somehow managed to carry with him, be it a thread of clothing or lock of hair, causing the distinctive order of his mate to always be drifting faintly about him. Assuming that a mate exists it would be another Wendigo for certain, for Wendigo are incapable of forming a mate bond with any but their own kind).

Considering how deeply not only the love but the sheer hunger and need for their mate runs, Sherlock would say that this man is suffering horribly indeed. (Assuming that he is mated, of course).

When the man finally breaks free and slaughters the humans whom had enslaved him Sherlock does not stop him, for to cease the death of these monsters would be an atrocity. Nor does Sherlock attempt to stop the man as he calmly walks away from the corpses. No doubt the man is heading in the direction in which he last recalls his (hypothetical) mate being, and to stop the reunion of a mated pair – especially of this species - would be a far greater crime then anything that those humans have bestowed upon him.


	5. Nigel

 

**Nigel**

A plague of some sort has swept across the land, killing off the humans by the hundreds. Their bodies are burned afterwards in an attempt to destroy the illness, but to no avail. They continue to drop like flies. In fact, the only human (well, human _like_ ) person that Sherlock has encountered in days is a family of Harpy eagle shifters.

Three males, each one bound to another.

Sherlock sees them in the middle of the night walking along the moor, shirtless so as to allow their massive wings room to breathe. Sherlock pauses in his journey to take note of them.

The eldest male. Alabaster skin and sable hair along with eyes resembling the ocean, wings an increate mixture of black and blue and white. He is mated to a male Werepuma, one with brown hair and eyes like olives and an easy, bright smile.

The middle sibling is a male with dark skin and curly hair and brilliant golden green eyes, the wings gracing his back a stunning combination of red and gray. He is also mated to a male Werepuma, a young one with blue eyes and bright blonde hair, body slim and delicate. A half brother to the green eyed Puma, if Sherlock is not mistaken.

The male that appears to be the youngest has white skin and coffee hued hair and eyes, his wings all cream and honey mixed with streaks of toffee. Unlike his elder brothers this male has two mates: a tall male Puma with fluffy brown hair and intelligent blue eyes along with a deceptitly charming boy-next-door air about him. (The brother to the other two, it would appear). : then there’s the female, a human short of height and small of stature, curly blonde hair and blue-green eyes and a sweet, heart shaped face.

Fortunately (and amazingly) she seems to be free of illness.

Something which the Wendigo standing atop of a hill far off into the moor has surly noticed. It is a male of intermediate age with blonde hair, resembling Count Lecter far too much not to be a Lecter himself. One of the three nephews, most likely, although which one Sherlock cannot say. What Sherlock can say is that this Lecter is almost surly starving, because although human food was plentiful humans themselves were not. At least none that were edible (of meat and of blood, for that matter).

The Wendigo shifts forward slightly, as if considering trying his luck at killing the female. (Foolish, considering her company. Of course if the blood that Sherlock had managed to take last week was not still sustaining him, Sherlock would be inclined to try as well, for he can just make out her clean, untainted scent of peaches and sunflowers and hear her heart thumping, strong and wet, inside of her chest).

It would appear that the Lecter heir retains enough sense to recognize the foolishness of his considered action as well, for as Sherlock watches he quietly withdraws back the way he had come. Sherlock hopes that he has luck locating a meal elsewhere. Starvation is a horrible thing, as Sherlock knows the other male knows far too well.


	6. Will and Hannibal 1

 

**Will and Hannibal 1**

 

Sherlock doesn’t have a good reason for being where he is now. A whole ocean away from his sibling, walking along the dirt roads of Devonshire in the dead of night and in the middle of a mild blizzard and howling winds, no less.

He had just wanted to get away for a while. Well, considering whom his elder brother is Sherlock is never really away, but still.

The wind dies down and Sherlock stops for a moment in the grass to appreciate the manner in which the snow dances gently in the air around him, when something catches his attention. Glancing to his left Sherlock notices that he has come to a stop in front of a relatively new building. _The Cott Inn_ , according to the sign on the door. The window above him is open ever so slightly, just enough for Sherlock to catch a glimpse of the two occupants inside, their forms obscured by the gray and red fabric that covers the frosted glass.

They are two males and each one is clearly nonhuman. Wendigo, judging by the scent. Sherlock automatically remains still, for it appears as though he has wandered into another’s territory, and unlike many beings, this species is most certainly _not_ docile. 

One of the males – one whom seems strangely familiar - is standing behind the other, barley a hairsbreadth from the other’s back, his posture so overflowing with sheer, raw _possessiveness_ that it instantly forces everything within Sherlock to shrink away from this other man’s – this other predator’s- mate, least he himself get torn to shreds.

“Did you just smell me?” the male in front asks, his voice low and curious and strangely pleased. As if the action of the other man was unexpected but not at all unwelcome. Far, far from it in fact.

Which, Sherlock muses, if they are engaging in courtship then the act of so obviously being scented by his intended could be a breach of whatever rules they are following. A welcome breach, from the sound of it, but a breach nonetheless.

“Difficult to avoid. A most unpleasant aftershave.”

That is the other male, the one whom had been standing behind the pervious one. His tone is an odd mixture of playful and smug, bloodthirsty and loving and anticipatory. He seems to be waiting for the other male to respond, waiting with adoration in his eyes and tenterhooks on his feet and darkness in his blood and gore inside his mind.

_What will you do?_

The wind chooses that moment to renew its howl sounding billow, swallowing up the first male’s response.

Sherlock continues on, carefully avoiding the scattered patches of ice beneath his feet and spares the courting couple a few thoughts of good luck. If there is anything Sherlock knows it is that love like that, the kind that he saw boiling up there almost never occurs.

It would be a pity if it slipped through that couple’s fingers.


	7. Nigel and Gabi 1

 

**Nigel and Gabi 1**

 

There is a female Wendigo living in this city. A red haired female, appearing around the human age of eighteen, which means that she is somewhere in her early 400s. A female with a dead mother and an apparently absent father. A woman named Gabrielle Ibanescu that smells of cinnamon and silk and sugared violets, living in a single room with rats for company and one thin, worn out dress folded up on a chair.

A woman whom is a whore.

Judging by the thinly veiled expression of disgust on her face as she picks up clients, Sherlock knows that Gabrielle never thought she would have to resort to this. To taking men (to taking these humans) into alleys or empty rooms to suck their dick or allow them to jam themselves inside of her.

Knows that she thinks it’s disgusting and degrading and beneath her. (She’s right, of course. It’s beneath anyone).

Now that her mother was gone it appeared that it was shelter and warmth as opposed to food that Gabi was worried about. Food was easy to come by, after all. The hunt was easy. Just find a human that didn’t reek of illness, follow them somewhere secluded, and kill them. Eat the meat raw if people were nearby, and cook it if time and circumstance permitted. Simple.

Shelter? Warmth? That cost money, something Gabrielle didn’t readily have. Of course a normal job (at least one that paid enough) was out of the question in this society (for these humans), being that she was a woman and all. So Gabrielle had been forced to turn to _this_.

So Sherlock casually watches as she allows them to fuck her, as she eats the ones that slap her or try to make her take it up the ass, and as she plays her bass violin in a tavern every night just to earn a little extra.

That is when he comes inside. Nigel Lecter, over six hundred years old and the youngest of the Lecter heirs. Blondish hair and amber eyes, scars and calluses in odd places and his human suit barley threaded together, smells of grass and peppermint and apples.

He is dangerous.

He is dangerous and it is clear to Sherlock that he makes Gabrielle’s heart pound and her stomach twist, and when he comes up to her and tells her that he has been lying in the storage room of the tavern, injured and dying, and that her playing saved his life… well, how was she to turn down the _invitation_ in his eyes after that?

~~~~~~

As far as Sherlock can tell Nigel isn’t like the other male Wendgio’s that Gabrielle has most likely met in the past, wanting to slice her and fuck her and stake their claim right off the bat.

Nigel follows her around, makes her feel safe and wanted and just plain good.

He respects her, not just her body or her violence or her hunting ability, but _her_.

He changlles her, talks to her about books and current events and spins his words with wit and dry humor and playfulness and darkness. He plays _the game_ with her.

He listens to her, does not brush aside her opinions or considers her head to be filled with fluff and cotton.

He gives her flowers that he finds, buys her a new dress because he saw her eyeing it, and even attempts to polish her bass violin for her.

He worries when she is sick, giving her water and placing cold cloths on her forehead, pacing the small room with anxiety tightening his muscles almost to the breaking point.

He smiles at her and doesn’t require that she smile back. That she fake being happy or impressed when the opposite is true.

When he comes to see her one day and sees a bruise on her cheek it only takes until dawn the next morning for the man responsible to show up in her bedroom, pearls in place of eyes and petals in his empty torso. Just until dawn that Nigel _protects_ her, until he proves that he is willing to kill for her.

On the occasions that they become angry at each other, Nigel does not strike her nor or throw her out or use his physical poweress (his clear ability to kill her) in order to subdue her. He talks or yells and allows his temper to cool and is perfectly alright with allowing Gabrielle to do the same. Perfectly alright with her hard eyes and raised voice and the manner in which she does _not_ submit.

He allows her into his room at the inn whenever she turns up at his door, societal gossip be dammed, and offers her bread or ale and hugs and comfort and a warm place to sleep, rubs her antlers and cleans her fur and feathers, all without expecting anything in return (not that Gabi gives him nothing, of course).

Nigel hunts for her, brings her fresh hearts, lungs, kidneys and arms. He _provides_ for her.

He calls her beautiful and sweetheart, gives her gentle kisses and even softer touches, and it is only when Gabrielle yanks his hair or bites his lip does Nigel increase the pressure. Only then, with her consent, does he treat her as the diamond he knows she is and not the fragile teacup that so many expect a woman to be. Only then, with her consent, does he mark her.

He is hopelessly in love with her, the devotion in his eyes as plain as day and the possession even plainer.

When he finally claims her it is with a bruising grip and soft eyes and growls in his throat and irises laying on her table. When Gabrielle becomes his it is because she respects him and provides for him. Because she worries about him and listens and cares and expects nothing and is willing to kill for him. Because she is utterly in love with him and will not allow another to have him. She becomes his mate because she _wants_ to be.


	8. Johan and Caroline 1

 

**Johan and Caroline 1**

 

Sherlock did not expect this when he snuck into the palace. Johan Lecter, the second oldest of Count Lecter’s three nephew’s, playing human and doctor and _friend_ to the insane, drunken whore of a king. Nor did Sherlock think that he would watch Caroline, Wendigo and queen and mother and consumer of servants, flirt with Johan, turning her back and baring her neck and allowing him to see her pulse thumping against her skin. What was even more interesting was not the manner in which they toyed with the King nor how they attempted to make life better for the humans – their meals – nor the displays that Johan left in her bedroom or how Caroline tore out the throat of a female servant making eyes at Johan. Nor was it even the love and the mate-hood and the child that was born to them, but rather that Johan loved Caroline’s son, half human and not of Johan’s blood, as if the boy were indeed his own. For Wendigos  (for predators) were much more likely to kill a child not of their blood then they were to raise them. Animal impulse and all that.


	9. Will and Hannibal 2

 

**Will and Hannibal 2**

 

 

They are sleeping when Sherlock stumbles upon them.

Hannibal and William Lecter– _milk brothers, they are sir, living together until a suitable girl comes along_ \- blacksmiths and Wendigos and bonded _and milk brothers they are surly not._

 Sleeping in a little house with a small garden and sheep slumbering away in their pen. A small house with dirt floor and a straw roof, a root cellar and dried herbs hanging on the wall, a fire burning low in the grate and a table and three chairs the only pieces of furniture.

Sleeping in a place that reeks of human blood, flowers, animal hides, iron, and stag fur.

Sleeping with four adult wolves sprawled about on the floor, their bodies well fed and they themselves clearly well loved, their loyalty ensured.

Sleeping on a straw filled mattress underneath two hides of bear fur, each stitched together with human tendons.

Sleeping wrapped around each other, Hannibal and William are, the gray in the Lecter heir’s hair catching the firelight as he possessively tightens his grip on William, his younger, curly haired mate snuggling closer even in sleep, muscles flexing under their skin as fingers brush over the various scars and claiming marks in their partner’s flesh (the beast rumbling and pacing and stomping it’s hooves, even in sleep).

Sleeping with a young, brown haired, freckled nosed, amber and saltwater smelling doe, about six years old nestled in between them – _Abigail her name is, beloved sister of the younger one and goddaughter to the other, and it’s so sweet, them taking her in like that_ \- the manner in which she clutches Hannibal’s wrist and presses herself against William’s side (her barer, surly, what with him being on the smaller side and all, an empath as well, as all barer Wendigo were) leaving Sherlock with no doubt that while _beloved_ was accurate _sister_ and _goddaughter_ was not truly what this child was to this Wendigo pair. Daughter to _both_ of them, was more like it. (Flesh of their flesh and blood of their blood and bone of their bone). 

Sherlock quietly leaves this small family, leaves them sleeping in a place that reeks of love and safety and _home_.


	10. Caroline

 

**Caroline**

When Sherlock happens upon Caroline Lecter again, some one hundred years latter it is raining and she is standing outside of a tiny house just on the outskirts of the city. Outwardly she is nothing remarkable, just a pretty brown haired woman with a kind face. Of course, being herself, Sherlock would guess that anyone meeting her for the first time would have to blink a few times.

Why wouldn’t they?

The former queen of Denmark, dressed in common clothes and unstyled hair, a dirty face and bloody lips and two young children (the at one time prince and princess) at her side.

 A woman whom smelt of jasmine and snow and had a hesitant smile and ink stained fingers.

A Wendigo whom, although born to wealth was clearly as tough as nails and harder then flint.

 A sister in law that shook hands and offered watery tea, and whom didn’t blink when the children fought and tumbled about on the floor or when Nigel, Johan, William, and Murasaki enter the house long after nightfall, their antlers gleaming in the moonlight and their inhuman skin flecked with blood.

A daughter in law with a vicious snarl and coffee colored feathers, a single pearl ring in a box and a keilod claiming scar on her neck and three books wrapped in burlap.

A woman whom feeds the chickens and assisted in chopping firewood and taught her children to read and write and shift and hunt, whom was smart and gentle and compassionate yet whose teeth and words could draw blood faster then anything and whom refused to mend the clothes.

A woman whom Sherlock can tell that anyone would instantly like.


	11. Johan

 

**Johan**

If there is one thing that Sherlock has learned about Johan Lecter during his few encounters with the man, it is that Johan is by far one of the gentlest and kindest men that have the good fortune of existing. It is not simply the manner in which he cares for his human patients, with a light touch and expert hands, nor how he kills with a simple snap of the neck or gives money and clothes to those less forturante and not even how his very possession is gentle, the buck holding his wife and children as though they may break. It just radiates out of him, that kindness, as much a part of him as is his need for bloodshed or aiding the sick.

But even the most non violent of individuals have their breaking point. Sherlock witnesses it when Johan’s son, Fredrick, is captured by a member of a species that Sherlock has never before encountered. A sort of reptilian humanoid race with black hair and grayish skin with ridges on their bodies, their minds filled with milteratry and dictatorship and victory. Sherlock does not know why this Wendigo child has been captured, but what he does know is that for the leader of this species, his human wife and their half breed artist daughter were his _world._

All it takes is the threat of his daughter’s heartbreak when the leader sees his child’s husbands - a caramel skinned human healer and one of their own species, a false tailor shroudered in shadows and secrets – their bones broken by onyx hooves and skin nearly black thanks to strikes from jet hued wings, their life blood slowly spilling from their bodies thanks to claws that ripped and teeth that tore and antlers that gouged to convince the leader to release young Fredrick to his father.

All it took was Johan kneeling between the thighs of this leader’s wife, his eyes gleaming with hunt and his black skin stretched tightly over human muscle, claws sinking into soft unprotected flesh and inky antlers gleaming with skin and blood and gore, his far too sharp human teeth hovering right over that one _special_ spot for Johan to ensure the safety of _his_ world. 


	12. Johan and Caroline 2

 

**Johan and Caroline2**

 

Sherlock has witnessed a great many atrocities over his many, _many_ years, but what this despicable human by the name of Adolf Hitler has… forced to happen is perhaps the greatest atrocity he has ever seen.

Gas chambers.

Prison camps.

Experiments.

People being gunned down in the street.

Thousands dead and thousands more wishing that they were.

Even non humans are not unaffected.

Sherlock watches as they pace the woods, Caroline and Johan; he, his great wings twitching and his furred ears shifting, his Ravenstag form beautiful and deadly as he circles the hole in which his terrified, fawn formed children hide; she, pacing the ground on animal legs and her heart pounding beneath chocolate hued ribs, her claws flexing and her teeth flashing, her family just behind her.

Circling and flashing –risking exposure- because while their daughter, with her golden hair and blue eyes and cute button nose was “desirable” their son, brown of hair and eye and long of nose, was “not”.

Their parents would rather sacrifice themselves then allow their son to be _not_.


	13. Murasaki

 

**Murasaki**

 

 

It is awful, absolutely awful.

Hiroshima.

The bomb.

The buildings and people reduced to piles of toxic, smoldering ash.

The devastation that humans are willing to hurl at one another without thought of the consequence.

It is indeed devastating, the sight of Murasaki Lecter standing whole and unscratched in the middle of the carnage, her ebony hair gleaming and her chestnut eyes shimmering, her nails slicing deep into her palms and her teeth clenched so hard it is a wonder they do no shatter.

It is indeed awful, how a Wendigo – a so called _beast_ \- can feel such compassion, while humans – the “civilized” species- are capable turning _off_ their compassion so completely.


	14. Louise

 

**Louise**

 

The butcher screams, long and shrill and horrified, and Sherlock would interfere, but this is not his kill. It is not his right.

It is the kill of Louise Lecter, the young female whom is all gangly limbs and blonde curls and inhuman snarls and skin flickering between oil and alabaster.

It is her kill, this foul human whom so insulted the Lady Murasaki, calling her Japanese and asking her if her… _pussy_ runs crossways.

The rights to the cut along the man’s stomach belongs to her, the young Countess, her eyes brimming with rage and the bloodlust rushing white hot through her mind.

The weapon that she uses is her right as well, the Samurai sword belonging to the one whom was so insulted held lightly and expertly in her hand, the temporary gift gleaming silver and dripping rubies.

The manner in which Louise beheads the disgusting human – the way in which she dishonors him so- is within her right too, for _he_ had dishonored (threatened) a beloved and well respected member of the doe’s family.

To protect that family? Louise Lecter has every kill and _every_ right.


	15. Will

 

**Will**

Out of all of the Lecter family Sherlock could have encountered here in this new world, deep in some sweltering southern Bayou, he would never have expected him.

William Lecter.

 Empathic, barer of a young doe and mate to the eldest Lecter heir. Naked with pale skin and chocolate curls, azure eyes and stubble, smelling of peppercorn, pineapple, saltwater and _family_.

Six fish and one small alligator lay on the ground next to him, the slit across each silver throat easy and clean. Enough to feed a family of three for two meals, at least. He’s collecting blackberries, William is, his fingers stained and covered in scratches and old scars, the wooden bucket by his side half full.

Suddenly he stills, his heart thumping and body motionless save for the tightening of his muscles. He’s smelled something, this other predator has. Something that causes fear to rise within him. Sherlock, taking his cue, remains put and watches, waiting for whatever it is that can frighten a Wendigo to (hopefully) pass on by.

It only takes a few minutes for the threat to come into view. Two human men, one with green eyes and graying black hair and tattoos and paint on his fingers. Smells like asters and spring, oddly enough. The other is little more than a teenager, white hair and ivory skin, blue eyed and far too thin. Carries the scent of frost with him, somehow, as well as an old shepherd’s crook.

They are lovers as well, judging by the purple bite marks and the order of semen that clings to them.

Admittedly Sherlock cannot see what threat these two pose, but pose a threat they apparently do, for upon seeing them William’s form shifts and within the time it takes to blink _it_ is standing there.

A skeletal thin being with the legs of a stag and the upper body of a man. Milk hued fur skin fitting like a glove over bones of black, antlers and eyes of ruby and the rock hard hooves and razor claws colored just the same. A form that is far stronger, far faster, and far more adapted at killing then the human one William had been wearing previously.

As the two men draw nearer a low growl of warning rumbles in Williams’ chest and although he remains hidden by the hanging foliage he shifts ever so subtly to the left, his muscles tensing even further. Protecting the direction in which his mate and child lay?

From two humans? Perhaps they were hunters, ones that William had encountered before. That would explain the buck’s reaction.

Whatever danger they pose the two men do not appear willing to dole it out tonight, for they keep walking through the mud and moss, hand in hand and completely unaware of the two non humans crouching just meters away. Tearing his eyes from their retreating backs Sherlock feels a moment of surprise when he sees that the spot that had been occupied by William a few seconds ago is now empty, the Wendigo having glided away with leaping bounds and silent hooves.

The meat along with the bucket of blackberries remain were they are, forgotten in William’s haste.

He had something more important than food to get back to.


	16. Gabi

 

**Gabi**

It has been a long time since Sherlock has encountered her.

Gabrielle, the doe Wendigo from so long ago.

A former whore with cellist hands and a backbone of gems, mate to Nigel Lecter and with hair the color of fire and a personality to match.

She appears to be in the high end of society when Sherlock spots her one day as he walks the streets of London, the paper announcing the murder of a prostitute by the name of Martha Tabram in his hand. It is not altogether surprising, considering the essential need for nonhumans to blend into human society, but what does surprise him somewhat is the state of Gabrielle herself. At first glance she would appear to be a Lady of great wealth; a carriage waiting for her, coins clinking in her purse, a beautiful silk gown covering her body. Upon closer inspection Sherlock sees the flaws; her face is thinner, her skin rough and slightly weather-beaten underneath the moisturizer cream, her nails somewhat ragged beneath her fine leather gloves.

Whatever wealth she has obtained is clearly a very recent development.

Yes, Gabrielle would not be considered a proper Lady. Not by the human upper class, at least.

By others, however?

By the neighbors -a green reptilian humanoid, her dark haired human wife posing as her maid, and a butler that looks like a giant potato- with whom she takes tea and hunts and runs around with?

By her family whose scents cling to her form and whom she returns home to and fights and laughs and shops with and teaches and annoys?

By the Fae couple down the street that welcome her into their pie shop with genuine smiles and an actual interest in her?

By her husband whom she nips at and argues with and whom she buys little presents for, whose skin is just as rough as hers and whom leaves bruises on her body when nightmares strike him and whom continues to all but worship her?

She is a Lady.


	17. Robertas

 

**Robertas**

It is a surprise that greats Sherlock when he rounds the street corner.

Robertas Lecter sitting at a table in the courtyard of a café, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him, the remains of a sandwich on a plate, and a cigarette filled with hibiscus and wolfsbane smoldering away on an ashtray.

He looks older, the Count does. Gray in his hair and lines on his face, body appearing slightly thinner beneath the heavy wool of his coat.

His eyes however, are still as sharp and intelligent as ever as he scans the people around him. Still _assessing_ , even though true danger is surly few and far between.

His fingers, clad in fine leather gloves, are still lithe and quick as they grasp the buzzing black phone in his pocket. Still uncalloused and still just as _capable_ as in his youth.

His teeth, reveled when his lips part just a bit, are still white and strong and still a little too sharp. Still an active predator’s teeth.

Robertas looks down at the phone’s screen, and whatever it is that he sees must have something to do with his family, because it is with soft eyes and gentle fingers and teeth that are just as accustomed to protecting as they are to killing.

All of it, still just the same.


	18. Nigel and Gabi 2

 

**Nigel and Gabi 2**

Sherlock takes the job because quite honestly he had nothing else to do. Seriously, nothing at all.

Guarding Nigel and Gabrielle Lecter for a month until their move from Burqerest doesn’t seem like a bad way to pass the time.

The home of these two Wendigos is very modern, sleek lines and gleaming metal and a few vases with flowers scattered about. There are also child’s drawings on the fridge and rooms with locks and what smells like a kill room in the basement. All in all, it is what Sherlock would expect from a modern non human whom consumes human flesh.

What Sherlock did not entirely expect?

That Nigel’s partner and bodyguard, Darko, is a Dragon Shifter, as Dragons are not at all fond of cities and even less fond of being ordered about. Apparently Darko was the exception.

The daughter that has been born to this couple. Melanie, appearing three years old with her mother’s hair and father’s eyes. Smells like pine sap and coconut and, although clearly adored by both her parents, is the apple of her father’s eye. It is obvious that, just as Nigel would do anything for his wife, he would do anything and _then some_ for his daughter.

How Gabrielle played her cello in the concert hall during the day and was a crime wife by night, helping her mate with the guns and the drugs, the murders and the whores without blinking an eye.

The two dozen strange hats that Gabrielle wore around the house, all of them looking like various Walt Disney characters, and Nigel expression of amused adoration whenever he saw her in one.

The way Nigel added a little coffee to his cream and sugar and never smoked or consumed drugs in the house, how Nigel and Gabrielle went out dancing at nightclubs and took turns taking their daughter to preschool, all the while with the beast shifting beneath their person suit and knives in their pocket.

The gun that Nigel presented his mate with as a gift for some occasion or another, silver and engraved and designed to fit perfectly in her hand.

How Gabrielle still played her cello for her husband, the notes and the movement and _her_ captivating Nigel as completely as they had back when he had been bleeding out on a dirt floor so long ago.

The manner in which Gabrielle’s father still seemed to despise Nigel after all these years and how, after taking Melanie to the park and the bookstore, her mother and father took her up onto the rooftops to observe her mother shooting bottles, Nigel’s arm wrapped protectively around both of his girls.

The fact that their extended family is such a strong presence in the house, not just scent wise but physically, Caroline and Johan floating in and out, smiling and taking coffee and helping with business and sleeping in the spare bedrooms. Fredrick and Louise helping Melanie scoop out pretend victims and ride a unicorn, coloring and washing dishes and aiding with laundry and money counting and tea time. Robertas and Murasaki, drinking brandy at the table and typing on computers, issuing orders to Darko and giving advice and reading and cooking dinner. How at night when everyone was present, it was a mixture of human skin, onyx hued ribs, and tiny wings. The sheer amount of _love_ that was present in this house.

The question that everyone of these mated pairs would often pose to each other, a question completely rethocial in nature. _What do I smell like?_ Instead of responding with something such as cherries, violets, cumin or snow, _Mine_ was always the answer.

How when Gabrielle received news of her father’s passing it took only a matter of minutes for Nigel to receive word of it, and even less then that for him to be at her side, holding her in his lap and murmuring wordless nothings in her ear as Gabrielle – his bedrock- broke down and sobbed makeup and tears onto his neck and filled her mouth with her husband’s blood.

The sight the eldest Lecter niece, Abigail, missing an ear and with scars on her throat. How sick Sherlock feels as Abigail sits there on the couch, her blue eyes wide and her ribs prominent and her skin far too pale and those scars far too red. As she tells them of the illness that has befallen her fathers and herself (an ancient spell that has become an illness, but details), one that erases memories and distorts the mind, that alters emotions and families until it all was almost unrecognizable. Nor was Sherlock expecting the murderous expression on all of these Wendigo’s faces as they heard the story, how two of theirs (two _mates_ ) thought themselves human and were trying to kill and manipulate the other despite their residual love for one another, buried deeply within their minds. How they were willing to not only deceive and harm and mark the other in such as deeply horrible manner, but were willing to imprison and mark their precious daughter in such a drastic and permanent way (and precious she clearly _was_ , despite everything, otherwise her Lithuian father, even though so ill, would not have been driven to claim her so nor would her barer, William, be so at ease with the girls’ virtual imprisonment within his mate’s home even if he could not know that he was smelling her there long, long after he thought her dead by his own hand).

The unbelievable viciousness in which not just Nigel, but Gabrielle, defended their claim on their mate. The easy yet blood chilling way in which this small, red haired female killed for her mate using her nails or a knife or her fists and even a handy crowbar.

The frequency with which Nigel calls his mate by almost anything but her given name. He calls her gorgeous, darling, sweetheart, beautiful, and Gabi, but never Gabrielle. Perhaps that is why when, one night after they have played that game with Charlie Countryman (whispered poisoned words and acted and faked fear and love and sex and almost bashed the poor boy’s brains in while falsingifying hatred of a beloved mate, until it ended with the human – the plaything- strung up with a bullet lodged in his abdomen because Gabi shot him for love) while Sherlock hears police sirens and a gunshot, it is Nigel’s scream of _Gabrielle_ that causes Sherlock’s ears to ring.

 


	19. Fredrick

 

**Fredrick**

 

It is in the forest of Lithuania that Sherlock spots Fredrick Lecter far below him, Sherlock’s high vantage point on the mountain offering him a perfect view of the Lecter estate, especially the cemetery wherein rests Caroline Lecter’s son. The young buck is sitting next to the ancient headstone of his long dead child aunt, the shrubbery and the house behind the teenager, which had fallen into severe neglect for the six year span that Fredrick’s uncles were absent and afflicted, is once again beautiful and well kept now that the minds of the family members in question are whole and bright and _right_.

 

He is studying to be some sort of medical professional, Fredrick Lecter is, judging by the small tower of oversized books beside him and the notes spread out in front of him, a page of which depicts a drawing of a human heart.

 

As Sherlock watches the youngster pauses in his study to direct sleepy, bloodshot brown eyes to the two females next to him; the younger one a plain but pretty Moroccan doe with black curls and turquoise eyeshadow, dried paint on her fingers and a purple pansy tucked behind her ear, the glint of ruby within her eyes betraying her Mer half for all to see; the older a doe of Japanese origin, gunpowder on her fingers and battle scars on her arms, a firefly tattooed on her neck and a crimson poppy in her mouth, her Fae half visible in her hair, the silken obsidian strands shimmering with hues of sapphire and violet and deep, dark pink.

 

Two does whom Fredrick watches with a possessiveness, trust and devotion to rival his elders, an expression that is mirrored in the gaze of each doe regardless upon whom that gaze falls, the current lack of a visible claiming scar on either body of skin meaningless.

Mates, even though two of them are too young to actually be mated.

Not uncommon amongst the longer lived species, really, to have a matebond that occurs far before childbearing age and that lasts over half a lifetime.

Not uncommon for family members to embrace the child-mate as though they were already one of their own, as had clearly occurred with this young doe. Recent, but deep that acceptance is, a daughter for whom trust is slowly being given and secrets gradually being shared, acceptance and love not far off.

Nor is it uncommon for one mate to be considerably older then the other, as is the Japanese doe. As for her acceptance? Very old and even deeper still, a loyal, valued, and dangerous family friend long, long before _mate_ and _daughter_ ever entered the equation. Keeper of secrets and killer of enemies and player of games, acceptance granted and love already long since bestowed.

 

The Japanese doe’s lips move, forming words that Sherlock is too far away to hear and even less inclined to figure out, considering the blush that spreads up each of her too young mate’s faces. Sherlock turns away, fond amusement shooting through him as he catches sight of a panther loping excitedly towards the trio, a resigned wolf pup held lightly in the feline’s powerful jaws and the father of the pup in question not far behind, before continuing on his way up the mountain.


	20. Abigail

 

**Abigail**

 

She lives here now, Abigail Lecter does. Here out in the French countryside in this little stone cottage with roses covering the balcony. In a cottage with teacups and books and quills and family pictures and unusually sharp knives in the kitchen. In a home that smells of dogs, laundry soap, blood and bread, peppercorn, family, and cloves. In a cottage perched on rolling hills dotted with rarely traveled rural roads and overlooking rabbit warrens and wildflowers. In a cottage with a dark skinned buck with slanted eyes and silk ties and possessive hands. In a cottage with gray shingles and soft beds and cold floors and her families’ (and especially her two father’s) scents lingering in the air, a fawn stirring within her belly, and the name Zabini printed on the mailbox.  


	21. Melanie

 

**Melanie**

 

Play grounds. Children greeting together and playing, competing, socializing, and shoving each other to the ground more often then not. Humans establishing dominance over one another, even if they do not recognize it as such. Even if most of that dominance involves knocking the other on the head with plastic cars, attempting to gum arms, and shoving each other to the ground.

All of it in being in good fun, of course. For human and nonhuman children alike.

The dominance play is much more obvious in the non human children, and especially so when they are playing in one of their own playgrounds. One of the special ones that wards off humans and is concealed by magic and is protected by Sprites or gargoyles posing as humans or decorative lawn ornaments.

Take the one that Sherlock is passing though, for example.

All in all it is the same as a human playground. Children shrieking and running to and fro, sand flying and monkey bars swinging, parents chatting with each other and sipping on coffee while keeping one eye on their young.

There’s not too many people out today. Two canine shifters, one druid, two Wendigos, a Dragon shifter, and a mostly human individual.

Amid the expected clamor if sound rings a high pitched growl followed by a delighted shriek, the sounds of which cause Sherlock to turn his head.

One child (a fox-jackal hybrid, by the scent of him) has shifted into their animal form in order to chase a peer, a chubby druid child with frizzy brown hair and violet eyes, and is currently nipping clumsily at said druid child’s heels.

Although it is clear that there is no harm being done Sherlock notices the manner in which the druid father (a man with greasy black hair, a large hooked nose, and ebony eyes) freezes for a moment, silver magic sparkling briefly at his fingertips before the man settles down and returns to his conversation on his cellphone, his voice smooth and betraying nothing to the woman (his wife?) on the other line. As for the parents of the young hybrid (a woman with curly red hair and her mate, a badly burned man confided to a wheelchair), they barley glance upwards before returning their attention to the tablet in the male’s scarred hands, the female’s head never having moved from its place on her mate’s shoulder.

No action is taken, after all it is just dominance and hunting play. Hardly unusual.

Take little Melanie Lecter, for example. She is perched, motionless, on the top of the slide, her eyes fixed and unblinking as she gazes down at the children below her. Suddenly and without warning she flings herself from her perch, landing on the back of another girl.

Melanie has her teeth pressed against the other’s throat before the hit the ground, a low growl rising from her skinny, eight year old chest. Beneath her the child, a small half Were Dragon with milk and coffee skin and glittering golden scales, freezes, a hiss of submission escaping through her clenched teeth. Apparently satisfied, the little doe releases her opponent and smiles at her before darting off, the even smaller dragon laughing and running after Melanie.

Yes, it’s normal, for Robertas, Chiyoh, and Gabrielle do not rise from their bench nor do the small dragon’s parents, a Dragon with red scales and a deep divot in his upper lip and his mostly human mate (a pretty, blind black woman) cease reading the thick brail printed book in the female’s lap.

Sherlock continues on his way, catching one last sight of the Lecter child’s hair, trailing like flame behind her.


	22. After

 

**After**

**AN: This chapter is an indirect reference to my pervious story “Crimson and Blonde”, a crossover between BBC Sherlock and Star Trek: Into Darkness, wherein vampire Sherlock is held captured in Baskersville and, through brainwashing and torture, is made to believe that he is Khan. He is then placed into a deep sleep and is awakened by Marcus. This scene takes place a few days after his awakening.**

 

 He notices them and he…. can’t quite recall them.

Not surprising, given Marcus and the threats and …. and whatever else had occurred.

They are the deer people.

The ones that eat meat that is hot and dripping blood and occasionally it is the heart, still beating away, that they like to sink their teeth into.

The people that smell like death and decay along with an odd fevered sweetness mixed in.

There are quite a few of them. A family, it looks like, if their familiar and loving manner is anything to go by, not to mention the easy way in which the mocha skinned infant is being passed about.

The family that.. that owns swords and plays the cello and… whom were once queens and drug lords and… that fight and employ dragons and cuts off ears and whom have a devotion to each other that he has never seen matched and…

And there is more. He knows there is but it is all lost to him now.

 The wind shifts, blowing his scent towards them, and almost as one they turn their heads to look at him. Upon noticing him each individual (apart from the toddler) either nod their head or lower their eyes. Gestures of recognition and respect, suggesting that whatever relationship they’d once had it was at least friendly, if not especially deep.

A satisfying one, it would seem.

He returns their gesture and continues on his way, leaving them to their coffee and conversation.

He hopes that he can recall them, in time. He senses that it would be a shame not to.


End file.
